


Of Bastards and Queens

by Westfelled



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, First Time, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Major Character Injury, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Past Miscarriage, Pregnancy, Romance, Spoilers Up To S7E4
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-09
Updated: 2017-10-23
Packaged: 2018-12-13 08:07:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11755596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Westfelled/pseuds/Westfelled
Summary: A series of oneshots exploring the relationship between the rightful Queen of the Andals and a bastard from the north.





	1. Storms

**Author's Note:**

> These oneshots will be relatively unrelated, mostly Dany's POV. I'll try to keep as chronological as possible but there may be some jumping here and there. Other than that, prepare for some canon divergences and speculations but no major AU's or spoilers.
> 
> Enjoy!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The King rides a dragon for the first time, but the weather does not permit a long flight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is all canon compliant until roughly episode 4, then it spins its own web from there. Just to keep in mind! 
> 
> Enjoy!

The lengths of power can only reach so far. Daenerys has learned this before, recalling clearly her insufferable helplessness at the time of Drogo's illness, or her inability to combat the starvation of her people in the Garden of Bones. Acquiring several armies and three dragons has considerably lessened such bouts of powerlessness. In fact, she would be remiss to deny that such power had birthed no small amount of conceit. Unfortunately, the gods have a way of amending those who stray from a walk of humility, or so she's heard. 

For Daenerys, this came in the form of a bastard king from the North, his body broken beside her.

It had been a foolish venture, she realizes that now. Encouraged and intrigued by Drogon's uncharacteristic submission upon meeting the King in the North himself, conversations had stirred. Unsurprisingly, it had been Tyrion who'd posed the idea of a second dragon rider, a notion she had admittedly been hesitant of given the fact that this man was still a stranger to her children and unsurprisingly, Lord Snow had seemed equally as resistant to the idea. However, unable to resist the relentless coercive efforts of her Hand, they'd settled on testing the idea with a simple flight over the bay, albeit with caution.

Clearly not enough of it.

The winds had been calm that day, or calm enough, with only a few clouds dotting the sky. A nearly perfect day for flying. Viserion's mighty wings had blocked out the sun as he descended, landing with a thunderous rumble. Aside from an expected bit of initial suspicion, the beast had taken to him quickly and once again, she found herself baffled by this northern king and stifling a bit of jealousy. 

The man had shown hesitation as he'd mounted the beast, though also eager to utilize her children after news of the failing campaign at Eastwatch had arrived. When asked if he'd take an issue with the height, he'd smiled softly and shook his head. Admittedly, such calm confidence was rather becoming of him.

With a curt nod, she'd watched as he settled between Viserion's shoulders and with a mighty sweep of wings, they'd ascended.

Viserion had soared high, taking the pair where he pleased and though she could feel the palpable tension in former smuggler standing beside her, narrowed eyes following every dip and swerve. Daenerys did not fear such a thing. Her children had nested, claimed the rock as their home. They would not venture far.

All things considered, things were going well. What she'd not expected, however, was the rain.

The temperamental weather characteristic of the south is known to most, but she's never truly grasped the extent, how a few innocent clouds could assemble instantly into a ruthless maelstrom. Within minutes, they'd found themselves at its heart, the wind whipping against them as fat droplets pelted the sand and sea. Ignoring the sting on her cheeks, she raised her eyes, peering through the grey curtain of rain to the pair soaring still in the sky. Viserion had become visibly distressed, twisting and turning in an effort to maintain his hold on the current and return to the beach. 

Apprehension pressed her heart rhythmically against her ribs, watching the man slide this way and that across the dragon's back. Viserion turned sharply and she'd gasped as Snow was nearly thrown, remaining rooted only by a one-handed and surely vice-like grip on the dragon's spikes. With that, her apprehension morphed swiftly to fear. Fear she'd not experienced in a long while.

Miraculously, the dragon had managed to regain his composure, closing in on a strip of sand and it seemed she could finally release the breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. That is, until a jolt of lightening struck the sea nearby and Viserion had reared back with a startled shriek. At that, the King in the North could not maintain his hold on the dragon's slick scales, an he fell.

For an eternity, he fell.

Daenerys recalls this very clearly, how the tortuous seconds of her powerlessness had passed, each one pulling him evermore forcefully toward the churning sea. Perhaps it had been the storm, but she's nearly certain she'd heard the crunch of his bones as he'd finally hit the water and disappeared, swallowed by the waves. 

He did not resurface.

A great deal of chaos later, they'd pulled him from the water as a sopping and mangled mess. Seaworth had been the one to revive him, forcing breath into his lungs and pounding a fist upon his crushed chest, a sight which had her wincing vicariously. Snow had returned to life only long enough to expel the excess of water with a rattle of broken bones before he fell abruptly into unconsciousness, and has remained that way ever since.

A slow breath, eyes pinched shut. She does not have the time nor the patience to muse over the weight of her guilt, or perhaps she simply does not possess the will to face the reasoning. A deep sigh presses her ribs against the fabric of her dress as she regards him beside her. No, not yet.

Missandei had performed exceptionally at heading up his treatment. The entirety of his torso has nearly blackened with purple and blue, concealed only at his ribs and arms where the bandages have been wrapped tightly in an effort to mend his bones. Miraculously, his innards had remained unscathed, a nearly impossible feat in and of itself.

As her gaze drifts from the horrid purple bruising, a subtle heat settles into her cheeks. It is beyond her control not to notice the comely swell of his chest or the ripples of muscle at his shoulders, carved by years of fighting. Something within her stirs as her gaze travels down a well defined abdomen, around the curve of his hip to the dark wisps of hair beneath his navel-

Suddenly self aware, she blinks and averts her eyes with a small huff. Now is hardly the time for such thoughts, not with so many wars to be won.

Still, she cannot help but notice his scars.

-if they could be called that, they're hardly even healed. It seems as if blood could begin bubbling from the stagnant wounds at any moment as the split skin has had yet to mend together, instead leaving gaping crevasses. These are not fresh wounds, she decides. They do not seem to pain him but upon her scrutiny, gazing into the exposed muscle, she cannot fathom any way in which they wouldn't. 

Then, as if stirred solely by the presence of her eyes upon him, he awakens in a flutter of dark lashes. Her heart leaps, wrestling between the relief of his awakening and the humiliation of potentially being caught staring. Blushing, she averts her eyes to the window that's placed mercifully beside her, peering down at the blackwater with feigned disregard. 

With a roll of her eyes, she speaks silently to herself. _How is it that a northern bastard has this ability to fluster me?_

A low groan from behind her and she turns, feigning calm surprise. "My lord, I am glad to see you are awake."

"Your grace," he croaks with dawning cognizance. Likely without thinking, he moves his hands beneath him in attempt to press himself into a sitting position. A clipped grunt from deep in his throat as the pain clearly makes itself known and she finds herself stepping forward, placing a gentle hand on his chest.

"Rest," she says, purposefully ignorant of his heat, of the the swell of muscle beneath her palm.

A stubborn shake of his head and he pushes back against her, determined to rise. "Eastwatch."

Harder now, she presses him back. "You'll be no use to them like this. You need to heal."

"No." With no small amount of distress, he meets her eyes and she is struck by the urgency swirling within his gaze, the rawness of his desperation. "There's no time for that."

A sigh, conjured by frustration and perhaps even concern. The words leave her lips carefully, and purposefully. "If it would please you, I shall send a legion of Unsullied to support your men until you return."

Jon blinks, stunned into a momentary silence. "Truly," he says, clearly not trusting himself to believe such a thing. "You would do that?"

She nods. "A good queen has a responsibility to protect and support her people."

Frustration flashes in his eyes, accompanied by a deep exhaustion which instantly ages him ten years. "Your grace, I cannot bend the knee to you-"

"I know," she interjects swiftly and with a sigh of equal chagrin. "I know that."

"Oh." Perplexion arises in the form of a subtly raised brow. "So why are you here?"

"I wanted to see how you were faring," she admits, ignoring the surprise in his expression. "Do you remember what happened?"

Wrapping a protective hand around his ribs, his gaze drifts to the window. The grey skies illuminate him softly, casting a cool glow about his already pallid skin. "I fell."

"You did." A terrible flash of his body tumbling helplessly into the sea. "Very far."

A tight breath as he leans back against the headboard with a sharp wince. "Aye, I can tell."

A remorseful tensing of her jaw, expertly concealed. "Consider yourself fortunate that the wind had broken the sea, otherwise the impact would have killed you."

"I'm decidedly hard to kill," he says with a grin that falls almost as quickly as it's appears. A twitch of his lips, as if debating a caveat but he remains silent and instead furrows his brows. "I remember nothing after hitting the water."

"You didn't resurface," she confirms, "I imagine your wounds prevented you from doing so or perhaps the impact knocked you unconscious. Ser Davos nearly dove into the Blackwater himself to save you."

Jon's lips curve upward in a half smile. "I suppose I'll have to thank him," he says. "And you."

A grim scoff. "You should not thank me. Viserion has never been ridden before, you've never ridden before. I should have never allowed this." Stifling a rising well of both guilt and disappointment, her lips form a thin line.

He, however, grins softly. "Perhaps Viserion simply doesn't like me. I can be a bit insufferable at times." A breath of air through her nose which feels suspiciously like a chuckle. "But you have another dragon. Rhaegal, was it?"

She blinks. "Truly. You were a hairs breadth from death, but you would mount again?"

"Aye," he confirms. "If you'll let me."

A raised brow. "Does death not frighten you, Lord Snow?"

"Jon, and it's hard to say." The correction is swift, and he surges forth before she has a chance to draw a debate. Then, there's that darkness. That haunted veil she's seen settle over him so many times. "...but if we do not mobilize your dragons we will all die anyway."

With little attempt at subtlety, her eyes flit to the crescent shaped scar at his chest. 

"You don't fear it because you've experienced it, haven't you?" A ripple of his jaw as he draws into himself, casting his eyes downward with something a bit like shame, or despair. Perhaps both. "Ser Davos spoke truthfully when he said that on the day we met."

Solemnly, uncertainly, he nods.

"How?"

He shrugs, then meets her eyes. "I'll tell you when you tell me how you're able to walk through fire unscathed."

"I'm assuming you've learned this from Tyrion."

"Aye," he says, "though admittedly, Unburnt is among your titles and with three dragons and two legendary armies, I see no reason for you to embellish."

A soft grin tugs at the corners of her lips, one which he mirrors identically. "It seems the gods have favored us both, my lord."

"Jon," he corrects her again. 

Conceding, she nods, testing his name on her lips. "Jon, it seems they've favored you again. That fall should have killed you." Then, through either confidence or carelessness, she continues. "I am glad that it didn't."

Seemingly caught off-guard by her unexpected concern, his eyes dart to her. Silently she rises, turning and stifling a grin at the subtle red hue of his cheeks. As she approaches the doorway, the tangible presence of his eyes on her is surprisingly not unwelcome. 

He clears his throat. "Thank you, your grace."

Pausing in the doorway, she turns and draws an unsteady breath, releasing it in the form of her name. "Daenerys." With what could be construed as hope, he lifts his eyes and she must stifle the flutter in her belly with an expression as regal as she. "In private, you may call me Daenerys."


	2. Maps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The King and Queen stumble upon each other in the war room the night before Jon leaves for Eastwatch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers for S7E5. Quick and sappy. Enjoy!

It's late, the night sky blackened by clouds which shield the earth from the illumination of the stars. While many would find the relentless rain of Dragonstone to be insufferable, Daenerys welcomes a change of pace from lands eternally bathed in sun. In fact the gentle patter on the sand and sea have become rather a soothing sound for her, comforting.

It's why she's come here, to gaze out the windows of the war room. A futile attempt to settle the churning in her belly.

When the notion of the hunt had been posed, she'd not been bothered to conceal her thoughts on the matter. The King had shown little reluctance in leading the expedition, in fact he had volunteered without provocation. If the dread in his voice had been any indication, it had not been an easy choice and yet it did not slow him from making it. The man seems far too brave for his own good and while such altruism might have otherwise stirred something inside of her, her lust is effectively stifled by the fear in her heart.

Just then, her reverie is shaken by a patter of boots behind her. Turning, she is struck suddenly by a flood of awe and fear and confusion and resentment. 

She hates what he does to her, or she tells herself she does.

A remorseful inclination of his head, and he moves neither forward nor back. "Your grace. Forgive my intrusion."

"There's nothing to forgive. You may come in," she says regally. 

The calculation behind each step does not escape her notice, neither does the controlled steadiness of his breath. "You were very quiet at supper."

A clench of her jaw, suppressing her anger but also relishing triumphantly at the lace of guilt in his voice. Rounding the northernmost end of the table, she lifts her chin. "I imagine you will depart for Eastwatch in the morning, yes?"

Curtly, he nods.

"It seems like a long journey." she says, tracing what would likely be their path.

He meets her eyes with a halfhearted grin. "Hopefully the Wall will still be standing by the time we get there." 

The passiveness with which the Wall is mentioned is a curious thing to her. The structure has always seemed immensely foreign to her, like a dream conjured from books and tales. Admittedly, there had never been much need to invest her time in the mysteries of the Haunted Forest, or the Lands of Always Winter. Frozen wastlands, she's always assumed.

"Would you humor me?" An inquisitive furrowing if his brow, but he nods. "What is it like beyond the Wall? I assume you've been."

He considers this. "It's cold." An unamused glare shot from across the table and he grins softly. "Jarring, I suppose. The first time I went north of the Wall, I had felt as though I had stepped past the edge of the earth to some terrible forsaken place." Slowly he rounds the table, hovering over the Shivering Sea. "It isn't, though. There are thousands who have built their lives there." 

She observes silently, thoughtfully as he traces the edges of bay. 

"-thousands of families with one less defense against the Night King than we have. I couldn't let them all die while we cowered behind a block of ice." He pauses. "Most of them died anyway."

The weight of his words settle on her heavily, as if she'd been there herself and she finds her heart suddenly heavy for him, for these nameless people. "You did what you could."

He sighs, gaze unwavering on the map. "It wasn't enough."

A subtle spark of fury, perhaps misplaced but present all the same. "And what of your people now? If you should fall," her breath hitches subtly in her throat but she presses resolutely through it, "who will be there to lead them through the Long Night?"

A ghost of a smile touches his lips. Silently, she wonders if she's ever seen him truly smile before. 

"My sister is a capable leader. In truth, she's far better at ruling than I am." 

Pausing, she considers this. To so easily relinquish an opportunity to rule, such a notion is nearly unfathomable to her. In truth she finds it admirable. Foolish, but admirable. 

With a grim sort of acceptance, she sighs. "You may be better than you think you are." At this, she moves to walk around him, the echo of her steps on the stone made infinitely louder by the tension between them. "Do not die out there in the cold, Jon Snow." Her heart twists, but her words remain firm. "You're far better than that."

"Daenerys."

The plea of her name on his lips is enough to halt her steps and with a beat of thought, she turns. 

The rawness behind his eyes nearly sends her knees buckling.

Stepping closer, he slowly and tentatively gathers her hands in his and her heart leaps at the contact. An effort to remain stoic is compromised as he brushes his thumb over her knuckles, her breath hitching at the silent request. Such forwardness is unfamiliar in her experiences with the man, though not unbecoming. 

Carefully, she unclasps her hands and allows him to tangle his fingers in with hers. Rich brown irises meet deep blue and she swallows, her hand rising subconsciously to rest on his chest, just over his heart. 

"I forbid you to die out there."

A small nod, a promise which neither of them will confidently put their hopes in but she accepts it all the same, because it's all she can do. As he leans forward, her heart thuds wildly in her chest and she finds her eyes sliding blissfully shut.

A soft brush of their lips and nothing more, not at first. His touch is gentle, almost worrisome, as if he fears she might shatter if he is too careless. Such thoughtful hands are scarcely known to her and not unwelcome. Then, as swiftly it has come, the moment passes and she finds herself stifling disappointment as he pulls away. When she looks to him she finds him searching her eyes, seeking permission. Some small part of him seems to be waiting for her disapproval, evidenced by the subtle tension in his brow. 

With a soft smile, she lifts her hand to his face, her thumb brushing gently along his cheekbone. This time, it is she who leans first.

With that, the army of the dead dissipates into snowflakes, the Iron Throne crumples quietly into a worthless pile of broken swords. In this moment, there is only each other.

Their kiss is far less hesitant now, as if they've already spent years learning each other's bodies. Warmth rushes to her cheeks at his tongue darting swiftly across her lower lip, testing her. Encouragingly, she presses herself into him and a deep sense of safety settles upon her as he wraps his arms tightly around her waist, pulling her ever closer into his protective hold. She needs no such protecting, but it is lovely all the same. Such a thing makes it difficult to break away, so she twists her fingers gently into a mane of raven curls and pulls him close, as if he would vanish were she to relinquish her hold.

A soft moan from deep in his throat and heat stirs between her legs. Mimicking the sound with one of her own, she reaches to move his hand to her breast, but halts herself. To join with each other on this night would be to accept the looming shadow which hovers over them. They will not take to her chambers tonight, she decides. 

Let them leave a future for themselves.

So they remain for a long while which seems like mere moments, tasting each other and exploring each other. Finally they part, reluctant in releasing each other's bodies. When she meets his eyes, she raises a hand to his cheek, running a thumb along his jaw and she cannot resist the pull of a soft smile.

It seems neither can he. 

The taste of him remains on her lips for hours afterward, the taste of salt and sweet wine. That night, she dreams of a raven-haired little girl dancing with a crown of winter roses.

-and she sleeps soundly, for she knows this is not a goodbye.


	3. Stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ruling is time consuming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly I'm not one for porn so for those of you expecting something super graphic, you might be disappointed. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ Regardless, I'm overwhelmed by the outpouring of love I've received with this and I hope you enjoy!

The first time she feels it, she subconsciously assumes it to be Longclaw's pommel pressed firm against her hip. She is not naive nor inexperienced, but simply too wrapped up in him to pay it any mind. The second time, the sword lies forgotten on the table but still a pressure at the seat of her thigh as she sits, legs draped over his lap. She pulls away, smirking slyly at the sliver of disappointment in his eyes. 

"It's illegal to draw a sword on your queen, you know."

Whether the touch of red at his cheeks is a product of his arousal or bashfulness, she finds it endearing all the same. "Will you come visit me in the cells, at least?"

Grinning, she leans and slips her tongue between his lips as she's done so many times before. The taste of him is eternally sweet and gods, how he feels like home. A hitch of his breath as she rolls her thumb over the swelling between his legs, drawing slow circles and grinning impishly into his mouth as he squirms subtly beneath her. He moans low and deep in his throat as she slides her palm up the length of him, finding herself working at the buckle of his pants.

A brisk rapping and a muffled voice at the door. "Your grace?"

They pull apart, mutual disappointment swirling in a gaze otherwise saturated by desire. Unmoving from her seat on his lap, she strains to keep the bite from her voice. "What is it?"

"Forgive me for disturbing you," the voice absolves, with a hint of frenzy and frustration. She recognizes it as Tyrion's. "I'm afraid there's been an... incident... regarding a group of Dothraki. I cannot specify precisely what is happening because it is all very confusing to me, but I know we are missing no small amount of Dornish wine, many of the men are not only belligerent but also inexplicably nude, there is a very large horse in a very small boat out in the bay-"

"Alright," she intercedes impatiently. Beside her, Jon casts his eyes down and grins. Admittedly, such a sight has her fighting a pull of her lips herself. "So I am to understand that controlling the situation is beyond all of your collective abilities?"

The man stammers for a fleeting moment. "My queen, I am learning that the Dothraki are not bred to accept orders, with the exception of those from their Khaleesi. This has been a hard-learned lesson, as evidenced by my nose which I am quite sure is broken."

"Very well." Clearing her throat she retakes her queenly intonation, but to stifle her annoyance is beyond her control. "I will compose myself and join with you shortly."

"Thank you, your grace."

The thud of retreating boots and she heaves a sigh, moving to rise to her feet. "If Tyrion knew how close he just came to dragonfire, he'd gladly face a horde of drunken Dothraki."

"It's alright." The young king smiles, untangling his fingers from hers as she slides from his lap. "Another time."

From there, they learn that privacy does not come swiftly to those who rule. It seems as though every quiet moment they manage to garner is swiftly thwarted by one matter or another. Furthermore they've elected to keep their affair concealed, unwilling to face the inevitable onslaught of input from their advisors. Admittedly, she can keep nothing from Missandei, who does not shy from a subtle, knowing grin when they arrive at the war room with flushed faces and swollen lips. Whether the men of her counsel remain uncharictaristically oblivious or uncharacteristicaly silent, she does not presume to know or care.

Finally, following supper one night, he approaches her with his hands clasped neatly behind his back and an air of sternness. "Your grace," he says formally for prying ears, "if I may, it seems there is a matter that begs your attention."

Mimicking his mien, she lifts her chin regally. "Very well, my lord. Lead on." The prickle of eyes at her back does not go unnoticed, but she does not care to pay it any thought.

They descend the steps to the beach silently, an arms length apart and it does not take her long to realize where he intends to take her. The mouth of the cave is dark and uninviting, shielded from the light of the moon and whether in comfort or through habit, he takes her hand in his. As they venture further inside she finds herself nearly blinded, her only compass being the gentle crash of the waves behind her. 

Finally they halt, and he slips his hand away to rustle with something at the ground. A soft crack, then another, and from a tiny spark the fire surges. Silently he shares the torch with two others rooted in the earth, the flame bouncing off of the jagged edges of the dragonglass to create a sparkling mosaic that reminds her much of the night sky. Beneath it and lying before her are two bearskins, layered over one another and spread wide on the sand accompanied by a tray with two goblets of what she presumes to be wine. 

She bites back a grin. Who would have thought the frigid north would birth such a romantic?

Turning to face her, the final piece in an image too beautiful to deem real, he speaks. "It's no royal chamber," he says, "but I thought-"

"It's beautiful," she interjects. It's a lovely thing when he smiles, something she yearns to pull from him at every opportunity. Closing the distance between them, they melt into each other easily as they have so many times before and from there, urgency swiftly takes over.

They shed quickly, but not so quickly as to spoil the moment. Their clothes drop to the earth and he breaks away, drinking in her image as if it were the sweetest wine and she flushes as his eyes wander every dip and curve of her body. Clearing her throat to shake him from his lustful reverie, his eyes dart to hers, returning the impish smile that's softly graced her lips. The torch fire casts a pleasing shadow upon the ridges of his muscles, also accentuating the goose flesh upon his skin. 

She must stow her sorrow at the sight of his scars. There is little time to lament over such things, for he pulls her swiftly into his arms and it is there that she loses herself. 

They take refuge between the furs and he's swift to lie her onto her back, capturing her mouth with his, supporting himself with his arms on either side of her as a protective barrier to all who would seek to cause her harm. Moaning softly, she relishes in the warmth his body brings as they cling to each other, a tangled knot of limbs. 

He breaks away then, leaving a trail of kisses down her belly. Soon, she finds her mouth dry and her head swimming as he brings her to the edge of her release and back again, there and back again, and she cannot decide if she loves or hates him for it. Unable to restrain herself, she tugs at his hair, silently ordering him to return to her and she presses her tongue into his mouth, the taste of her on his lips as he nestles between her legs. 

Suddenly, he pauses and pulls back, searching her eyes for permission and with a breathy smile, she slides her hands down the small of his back to his rear and guides him inside. Her heart leaps, overwhelmed by the raw emotion of their joining and she feels him tremble above her with what she hopes is something similar. Slowly he builds up a rhythm, taking care with each roll of his hips.

The tension builds quickly from deep in her belly and she wraps her limbs tightly around him. Somewhere between moments and hours, she drops back with a gasp as her muscles tremble with release and he pulls back at this moment, savoring the heave of her breath and the euphoria in her eyes as their gaze remains locked. It isn't long before she senses his nearness and, thwarting his attempt to remove himself before he spills, she instead pulls him in deeply. With a soft cry and a stutter of his hips, he fills her with a warmth that floods all the way to her fingertips and toes.

Moments pass and they lie panting, joined still and relishing in the closeness of their bodies. This is her favorite moment; the feel of his chest trembling against hers, the fullness of him inside of her. This is the peak of their tangible intimacy and gods, she cannot get enough of him. 

Finally, he pulls back, casting his gaze downward and drawing suddenly into himself. Curious, she places her hands gently on either side of his face, encouraging him silently to lift his eyes to her and she is struck by the rawness, the conflict swirling within them. All at once, the King is gone, leaving in his place a broken shell of a man. It's clear to her, lamentably, that he's waiting for her rejection, for her to toss him unceremoniously from this dream as the bastard that he is. 

To abandon him for something better.

So, she tucks a raven curl behind his ear, smiling softly and she is nearly crippled by the fullness of her heart as she meets his gaze. 

Her words are soft and sincere.

"I will not leave you."

A breathy chuckle, something between a laugh and a sob as he dips down to capture her lips deeply. "I'm sorry," he sighs, resting his forehead gently against hers and closing his eyes. "I think I might love you."

Her heart leaps in her chest, but she finds no need to hesitate and simply smiles. "I think I might love you as well." Whatever response he might have had is cut short, for she pulls him in fiercely and without intention of ever letting him go.

On this night, the world waits. For them.


	4. Prayer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Queen is stricken by a nightmare that rattles her more than she'd like to admit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers up to S7E6. Again, thank you so much for your support. That's what keeps me going!
> 
> Prepare for a buttload of angst ahead.

Daenerys has never been one for prayer.

Events that have transpired in her life have certainly warranted it, she must admit. Or at least, they might have. Still, she's found that of all the deities swimming about the texts, about the world, she's gotten this far without their help and from there, she'd never paid it any more thought.

That is, until now. This moment is far different from all the rest.

For there the Night King stands, tall and stoic upon the island with an arm outstretched and his back turned to her, Longclaw resting uselessly by his feet. The bitter cold catches in her throat as her gaze travels up his arm to the man thrashing fruitlessly, gloved fingers clawing at what must be a vicelike grip around his throat. In this moment, she prays, though she isn't quite sure who she prays to.

For reasons unknown, she finds herself utterly frozen even as she screams at herself to move. The walker turns to regard her over his shoulder, meeting her eyes even from afar with a raw evil that strikes to her very core, prickling her skin like a thousand needles, seeping into her bones like a sickness. A rock drops into her gut as a spear of ice appears in his hand, bearing a striking resemblance to that which had pierced Viserion's chest not moments ago. Seeing this, the man fights with renewed vigor and gods, her limbs weigh more than even the mighty dragon beneath her. Move, move, move, she orders herself, but some cruel force will not allow it. So, helpless, she prays harder, a plea against the inevitable.

Their efforts prove fruitless, however, for the Night King turns back to the man, her lover, her king, and slides the spear slowly and tortuously into his belly.

At this, this army of the dead falls into silence.

Drogon screams beneath her, but the beast emits no sound.

The pulse of her own heartbeat becomes deafening.

-and somehow, time slows.

No, she recites frantically. No, no, no. Gods, no, but her denial will not mend the gaping hole in her lover's gut. 

The spear plummets deep but he does not cry out, instead uttering only a choked gasp that reaches Daenerys' ears as though she were standing right beside him. With a spurt of red, the Night King withdraws and Jon drops breathlessly to his knees, heedless of the puddle of blood forming beneath him. Two wights appear suddenly on either side of him, holding his arms steady as the blue-eyed being takes a step forth. Even now, he pulls from their bony fingers weakly, with the same unrelenting resolve that made her fall in love with him to begin with. 

Uncertain of whatever inevitable horror is about to unfold before her, her heart sinks into as the Night King places two fingers at the center of Jon's forehead. Daenerys knows not what cruel magic sinks it's claws into him at the contact, but he screams.

Gods, he screams.

Help him! Move! But she finds herself helpless, motionless, tears streaming down her face as she remains inexplicably trapped within the confines of her mind as her lover thrashes and writhes. In her chest, an agony she's never felt before. A crushing, suffocating, relentless sorrow that floods every fiber.

Please, gods, let me help him.

A brief moment of respite, made all the more cruel by drawing the process out even longer, but the man seizes the opportunity to bellow a ragged command.

"Go!"

No, she whimpers silently. No, let me help him. Let me save him. I can save him. But the Night King reaches forward once more, and the wretched cries resume, burning a hole through her heart and filling her with grief. Behind her upon Drogon's back, a nameless voice speaks solemnly.

"End the war, dragon queen, and his misery."

Somehow, the words free her from whatever malevolent force has seized her body, but it is far too late now. No, she argues silently, no, I will not leave him.

Even as the thought passes firmly through her mind, her heart cannot help but reveal the truth.

The Night King releases him once more and whether he trembles from agony or the cold, she cannot say, but he is visibly weakening and the sight breaks her heart all the same. He raises his eyes to her and somehow, his voice resonates within her mind.

Dany, please.

His words are a dagger in her heart and her breath hitches at the rawness, the desperation of his expression. Namely, the silent plea and the grim acceptance in his eyes. 

In her mind, his voice speaks once more. 

End the war.

With a shuddering breath, she nods, and her voice emerges as but a whisper.

"Dracarys."

* * *

She awakens with wet lashes, her tears having formed a tiny pool upon his chest. The realization of the warm body beside her strikes her hard, but comprehension does not come so swiftly.

Gathering her bearings, she rises and with utter disbelief, eyes darting about his body beside her. Hesitantly, she reaches out, brushing the pads of her fingers along his skin and feeling his warmth, feeling the soft rise and fall of his chest. No. Surely the gods are toying with her, allowing her a glimpse of happiness just as they had in the House of the Undying. Subconsciously, she holds her breath, waiting for the inevitable tell of deceit.

But it never comes.

No. It had been real, a memory. The army of the dead, the island, the horrible anguish that had burned a hole in her heart as she'd-

...left him behind, because he'd fallen. Grimly, she recalls the horrid sight of him disappearing beneath the ice, but the Night King had never invaded him with his magic, never so much as touched him. Drogon's mighty flame had never engulfed him, had never turned his beautiful face to ash.

This is real. He's real. With tears pooling in her eyes, she turns to his slumbering form and feels her breath quicken. He's alive, he's alive. He's here. He's alive. 

Perhaps he feels her eyes upon him, or perhaps she's unknowingly said the words aloud, but he awakens with a flutter of raven lashes. "Dany?" His voice is thick with slumber, low and gruff as he focuses on her face. Recognizing the wetness upon her cheeks, the sleep clears instantly from his eyes and he shifts himself upward. "What is it? What's wrong?"

The sound of his voice brings a fresh wave of misplaced grief, and she bites back a sob.

"Hey," he says, turning lifting himself up onto his arms. The furs pool at his hips as he positions himself over her. "Talk to me."

Tearfully, she lifts her eyes to him and his lips part as he desperately searches her for something, anything that could divulge what it is that's swimming in the depths of her mind but she cannot bring herself to recite it.

Not again.

So instead, she swallows thickly and rests a trembling hand upon his cheek.

"Make love to me." A tear scurries down her temple.

Concern and perhaps even fear swims in the darkness of his eyes as they dart between her own. Right, left, right. "Dany, I-"

"Please," she whimpers. "I... need to feel you." A long pause and with no small amount of reluctance he nods, taking her hand and pressing his lips to each of her knuckles. 

Dipping down, he covers her body protectively with his own, slipping his arms beneath her back to pull her in close. Each motion is slow, deliberate. His kisses are soft and wet upon her skin as he leaves a trail down her neck and into the dip of her collarbone. Burying her face into his hair, she breathes him in and sniffles quietly. At this, he draws back, gazing at her with a creased brow and a deep frown, sharing in her sorrow without knowing its cause.

Desperate for his closeness, she pulls him in and kisses him deeply. When they break apart, she leans her forehead against his and whispers. "Please."

With a small nod, he settles between her legs, his breath soft and warm in her ear as he pushes smoothly into her, lacing his fingers with hers. Beneath him, she draws a shuddering breath and closes her eyes, finding much needed comfort in the fullness he brings her and the horrid images begin to fade as his hand snakes down between their bodies, stroking her softly with his fingers. Soon, the horrors of her slumber fade into a distant memory and he is her world once again, pulsing gently into her and filling her wholly. 

She never finds her release, how could she? When his lips purse into what she knows is an apology, she kisses him deeply and they cling to each other with all of their souls and all of their strength. The tears flood her anew at this as she finds herself overwhelmed, stricken by raw, unadulterated adoration and gods, she'll never let him go again.

He breathes deeply into her hair, exhaling a soft "I love you." The words catch in her throat, so she can only nod emphatically and bury her face into his neck, soaking his skin with her tears.

Gods, never take him from me again.


	5. Handkerchiefs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Queen doesn't have the time to nurse an insufferable cold, but the King persists.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very quick, very fluffy bit of fun before the finale which I'm sure will leave us all in tears somehow. 
> 
> Thank you again for all of your support!

"Denaerys, lay down."

"I will not," she croaks, wincing as the door shuts behind them with offensive loudness.

"The longer you put off rest, the longer it will take to recover," he reasons, guiding her shuddering form to the bed with firm hands. Had she any more strength in her weary bones, he'd have certainly been faced with far more resistance on her part. However, the throbbing pain in her head and the fire in her throat would not allow it. 

Still, weakly albeit stubbornly, she persists. 

"I'm fine."

"Aye," he assuages with a poorly concealed roll of his eyes. "Very convincing when I can hear your teeth chattering from down the hall."

"My teeth are not chattering," she grumbles with a wet sniffle.

"You're just adjusting to the cold, a lifetime in Essos can't have prepared you well for this sort of weather."

Swiftly, he replaces her dress with a loose robe before her fever-addled brain even has a chance to notice his nimble fingers upon her. Understandable, she muses. He's had much practice in the realm of removing her clothes, only now she finds his swiftness more irritating than anything else. Admittedly the new material is soft, gentle upon her skin which seems to ache at every touch, but she'd die before she let him know it.

The bed dips beneath her weight as he lies her back and seats himself beside her, tossing her shoes to the floor and warming her toes between his hands, rubbing the cold from her muscles. "Your feet are freezing, you need thicker boots."

"Cold cannot harm a dragon," she mutters. A halfhearted noise from his throat, but he disregards her bullheadedness as she imagines he rightly should. Instead, he reaches forth to rest his knuckles across her forehead. It's a conscious effort she must make not to lean into his touch, lest she allow him to believe she finds pleasure in this pampering.

Perhaps she does, just a bit.

"You're warm," he says, brushing the loose strands of her braid from her face. "I'll get you some broth in a bit."

"I'm not warm."

He ignores her, instead rising quietly and gathering an armful of logs, feeding them one by one into the swollen flame in the hearth. Azure eyes follow his dark figure, observing him with calculation as he bends low to stoke the fire. 

Clearing the muck from her throat, she arches her back subtly and cups the swell of her breast woth her hand.

"You know," she croaks, drawing his attention. "There are other ways that you could warm me up."

A dark brow is raised, partnered with an amused half grin. "And this would have nothing to do with you trying to prove you aren't sick?"

"Of course not," she denies innocently, "you are my lover, I only wish to be intimate with you as a lover should." Fighting the itch in her throat, she slips her shoulders from her robe, both cursing and thankful for the chill in her bones as his focus dips to her exposed breasts. He swallows noisily, his voice little more than a rasp as he forces his eyes back to hers, irises swallowed by the blackness of his pupils.

Then, it appears. The wretched itch at the center of her nose, sending a flood of tears to her eyes. Helpless against the growing contortion of her features, she draws a deep shuddering breath-

And sneezes.

Once.

Twice.

Thrice.

When finally the assault concludes, she lifts her eyes to him slowly, and naught but rage burns in her heart at his insufferable, poorly concealed smirk.

"You need to cover up," he says once more, stepping forth to retrieve a clean handkerchief from the bedside table. Fighting the warm tingle of embarrassment in her cheeks, she swipes it from his hand to hastily clean the offence from her nose, meanwhile permitting him to rewrap the fur snugly around her half naked body. "But I assure you, this will be the only time in our lives that you'll ever hear me say those words."

Conceding, she sniffles but does not deny the comfort found in the warmth of the furs, or in his hands. "Very well."

"Trust me," he says, helping himself to the vacant space on the mattress beside her and leaning back against the headboard "I've seen my share of the cold. You just need to rest."

Feeling the ice beginning to melt slowly from her bones, she curls into his body and rests her head upon him, feeling the thump of his heart and the soft gurgling of his belly beneath her ear. They sit in silence for a while, enjoying the mere comfort of each other's presence, the heat of each other's bodies. Contemplatively, she lifts her eyes to the flurry of white beyond the window, observing every whip and whirl as it is forced against the glass. 

"You know, until recently I'd never seen snow before," she sighs softly.

She can practically feel the ascension of his brows behind her. "Truly?"

"As you said, a lifetime in Essos."

A small grunt of understanding. "I wish I'd have been there to see your reaction when you saw it for the first time." 

"In truth I'd barely noticed it," she admits. A pang of sadness strikes her at the memory. Speckles of white swirling about her while her lover fought below in a maelstrom of the dead, trapped at its epicenter. Ever observant, he seems to sense her melancholy and places a soft kiss into her hair. 

"I have a request then," he pipes.

"Hmm?" A wet cough seizes her chest briefly, soothed only by the gentle circles made by his palm upon her shoulder. Composing herself, she begins anew. "So what would that be?"

"Forget what it looks like, forget what it feels like." Inquisitively, she furrows her brows, craning her neck to meet his eyes. "We'll do it again."

A breath of laughter, concluded by a sniffle. "I'm not sure I can just forget."

"That's true," he admits, "but we can make a better memory to go with it."

Understanding, she smiles breathily and nods, resting her head back upon his chest. Even now, with giants marching inside her skull and the skin of her nose made pink and raw, she smiles. With the heat of him beside her and combatting the icy sheen upon the window with gentle kisses upon her hair, she decides that a better memory has already been made.


	6. Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The King's lineage is revealed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angst-bomb ahead. Thanks for all the support! Also a big thank you to Puke-Silver for being the coolest person alive. 
> 
> Comments are my favorite!

When he turns to vomit at the news, she tries not to take it personally.

When he disappears for two days without a word, she finds offense more difficult to circumvent.

It's late when three frigid raps at her door cause her to spring hopefully from her bed, for she's not found rest since the moment he'd departed. However, her relief is swiftly replaced by both fury and pity at the sight of him. He's as disheveled as she's ever seen him, with sunken eyes and skin pale as the winter sky. Exhaustion weighs heavily in his eyes, followed closely by something she cannot quite place and such a fact makes her uneasy. A heavy silence follows, one she finds she has little patience for. So, she retreats coldly, leaving the door open wide in a silent invitation for him to follow.

When she turns to face him, it's a struggle to keep the bite from her voice, a struggle she does not emerge victorious from. "Are you going to disappear again?"

"I'm sorry." A heavy veil of guilt falls visibly over him, his shoulders sagging as he breathes a defeated sigh. "It was wrong of me to do that to you."

"It was," she confirms. "Did you find whatever it was you were looking for?"

"Dany, I-" he raises a hand to stroke his beard, a frequent habit she's noticed of him since their early days together. A habit she had once found endearing but now only serves to frighten her. "I don't know what to say. So much has changed now."

It's an effort to maintain a steady voice. "Why must this change anything?"

"Why?" A harsh exhale spills from his lips, a concoction of sorrow and fear and fury. "Dany, my whole life has been built on falsehoods. My father isn't my father anymore, my family isn't my family anymore."

"He will always be your father, regardless of your blood," she counters softly. "And I've heard the way you talk about your family. Do you truly think they will love you any less because of this?"

With eyes downcast, he shakes his head. "They aren't my-"

"They are," she interjects, enunciating her sincerity. "They always will be." 

Silently, he seats himself on the edge of the bed, running a hand over his hair and sighing deeply. "My whole life I searched for something, anything about my mother. It was all I ever wanted, just a glimpse of who she was." He shakes his head, gaze dipping to his hands fidgeting in his lap. "Now all I want things to go back to the way they were, for my uncle to be my father and my mother to have neither a name or a face."

Quietly, she takes her place at the seat beside him, placing a gentle hand between his shoulder blades. "Things will only change if you want them to change. You don't need to choose. You're a Stark, and you're a Targaryen." She smiles softly. "And you're a Snow."

He sighs, casting her a glance through the corner of his eye. "Those are three very different things."

"They are, but they're the pieces that make you who you are. None of them need to outdo the others, and I love them all the same."

A sudden tension seizes the muscles beneath her hand. 

"You're right," he murmurs. "But I'm still a Targaryen." When he turns to her, she's struck by the tear that scurries down his cheek. "I love you," he whispers ominously. "I want you to know that."

It's strange how such a simple, routine admission has the ability to utterly demolish the world around her.

"Do not," she warns, her lip quivering. "Don't you dare."

He shakes his head, lifting his eyes from the floor to the ceiling in an effort to rescind the tears in his eyes before returning his gaze to her with a grim smile. "Dany, you know what this means."

"Why must it mean anything?" She rises abruptly, drawing a shuddering breath in an attempt at composure. "My family has practiced relationships like ours for thousands of years. I grew up with the expectation that my brother would one day become my husband. My brother, who abused me, tortured me, and sold me like a slave." A ripple runs through his jaw just as his fists tighten in his lap. So, she crouches before him, gathering his hands in her own. "Instead, I was given you. Strong, gentle, wonderful you." 

He shakes his head, avoiding her gaze and sniffling. "I don't want to hurt you," he laments hopelessly. "I don't know how to make this easy for you."

With no small amount of reluctance he rises and tugs away from her grip, stepping around her and busying himself with swiping at the moisture on his cheeks. Her breath catches in her throat, her palms aching as though she's wrenched thorns from her skin. Panic strikes her chest when he moves for the door, replaced swiftly by a raw fury which through her veins. 

Forming tight fists at her sides, she snarls. 

"Do not walk away from your queen." 

At this, he pauses, fingers sliding slowly off of the handle and she somehow finds herself at a loss for words. With all the power and the intellect and the poise in the world at her fingertips, she cannot conjure a way to make him stay.

Such a thought terrifies her.

So this time, her voice emerges as but a whisper, its queenly intonation having dissipated entirely. 

"Please."

Finally, he turns and lifts his eyes to her, swollen and red and watering. The raw sorrow, the longing in his gaze does not go unnoticed, and had her heart been in salvageable shape she might have found comfort in it. Instead, she finds only further grief.

Then, suddenly, he's gone.

Her limbs turn to stone, her mouth runs dry and her heart pumps in her ears like a war drum. He cannot be gone. He can't.

He can't...

There's a knock at her door not thirty seconds later.

-and her breath catches in her throat.

Tentatively, she rises, scarcely allowing herself to believe such a thing. She's barely had a chance to undo the lock before he forces his way through and suddenly his hands are on on either side of her face, pulling her into a crushing kiss. In that moment, any trace of anger or hurt or disappointment dissipates into vapor and she instead finds herself trembling with the flood of relief that washes over her, engulfing her, swallowing her whole. Wracked with guilt among many other things, he grips her ever tighter, a frantic "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," spilling from his lips between kisses.

It is sloppy and wet and desperate and it's the sweetest thing she's ever tasted.

They break away, their tears having mingled on each other's cheeks. His breath shudders as he rests his forehead against hers, fingers knotted tightly in her hair as if he fears she'll float away in the breeze. He then pulls her in tightly to his chest and buries his face into her neck, his body trembling as she returns the embrace with equal force. 

His voice is uneven and desperate in her ear. 

"Don't ever let me do that again."

Wracked with silent sobs, she nods.


	7. Fear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Queen contemplates a prophecy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your support, it keeps me going and I so appreciate you guys! I hope you enjoy.
> 
> P.S. A big s/o to M, for all your encouragement. Love ya, bb.

The maester reveals the news as flippantly as if he were discussing the weather, breezing swiftly past and prescribing remedies for her churning gut as if she'd a simple case of food poisoning. Truly, she cannot blame him. The man must tend to more births than she can possibly fathom. What is one more babe to the world, even be it to a queen? To him, such a thing is routine, expected. 

To Daenerys, it is anything but.

The very notion is enough to incite a whirlwind of apprehension and she's yet to find any of the traditional joy. Instead, she feels only what she can only describe as preemptive grief, a crippling fear that history might repeat itself. She doesn't recall Rhaego being pulled from her womb, had never known the sight of his lifeless little body and if nothing else, she thanks the gods for that.

Were history to repeat itself, she might not find herself to again be so lucky. 

Though, if this impossible life teeming within her proved to be any indication, perhaps she should not place so much of her heart in such grim prophecies, prophecies made by a witch long since dead herself. Daenerys has seen far too much magic in the world to allow herself to discredit the notion fully. 

Jon rose from the dead, she reminds herself grimly. The thought plants a seed of nausea within her as it always does, but surely he cannot be the first or the last to defy implacable ordinance of life and death? Perhaps it is magic she should be thanking rather than cursing. Would that same power not continue to reside within him now, and is it possible that such a thing could be to credit for the miracle growing within her?

She swallows. Would that power be strong enough to bring her to term, or would death once more prevail before her babe's first breath? 

A deep sigh and she rubs at her eyes with her fingers, suddenly far more exhausted than she recalls being just moments earlier, her limbs far heavier. 

Tentatively, almost shyly, she rests a hand upon her rounding belly, simultaneously awed and terrified at how swiftly the fabric of her dresses have tightened against her body. It won't be long before whispers begin stirring, if they haven't already. In an attempt to delay the inevitable, she's since elected to drape herself in extra furs. It's a lie when she tells herself she is merely protecting the news from lips undeserving. In truth, she simply finds herself stifling the truth, because perhaps then the grief will not be such a burden.

You cannot lie to him, she reminds herself. He deserves to know, even if it will one day hurt him.

A swell of longing in her chest. Gods, just bring him home to me soon.

Just then, as if on cue, a knock at her chamber door. "Your grace?" A voice not immediately recognizable, she imagines it to be a castle servant and gathers her composure swiftly. 

"Yes, come in." 

The man enters noisily, tall and bearded and armor clad. "Forgive my intrusion, your grace. My Lord Snow's party has just returned. Shall I escort you-"

"Yes," she interjects impatiently, her heart fluttering as she rises to her feet, tempted to simply push past him in the interest of haste. "Take me to him."

It's a walk made far longer by the anticipation, but finally they arrive and her breath catches in her throat. He favors his right leg and bears no small amount of blood upon his clothes, but still he is whole. Turning, he releases a breath at the sight of her, one he's likely been holding since he'd left her all those months ago. They're left together in solitude and he offers her a weary smile which she swallows quickly, greedily, warmth flooding through her veins at the softness of his lips. When they break apart, she rests her forehead upon his, feeling the coarseness of his beard beneath her hand. 

"I've missed you."

"I've missed you too," he reciprocates softly, his voice low and longing, but laced too with something darker. With a deep sigh, he lowers his eyes. "Last Hearth is lost."

Daenerys swallows. "I'm sorry," she offers, running a hand down his jaw. "I should have sent Rhaegal with you."

"No," he mutters, pulling away. "We cannot risk him. We need to save our strength, and we need to act now." Silently, she watches him force himself forward, stifling a grimace. "Willem!"

Not a moment later does the same guard who'd escorted her appear at the door. "My lord?"

"Summon the war council," he commands. "Immediately."

Willem nods curtly. "Aye, my-"

"You'll do no such thing," Daenerys interjects. The guard hesitates, pausing mid-turn as she addresses him though her eyes remain locked firmly on Jon's. "Your commander needs his rest."

"There will be time for rest when the war is over." Jon lifts his eyes to Willem once more. "Summon the council-" 

Daenerys hisses. "Do not." 

The tension that settles is nothing less than palpable as the two rulers bear identical glares to one another. Willem stammers, eyes darting between them in search for instruction as a battle of wills commences before his very eyes. Finally, Jon concedes with a grumble. "Leave us." 

The guard scurries out quickly, retreating to before another dispute prevents itself. 

Daenerys steps forth as the door shuts behind him, her voice low and dangerous. "Jon, hear me. You'll kill yourself this way." Naught is done to conceal her chagrin and he lowers his eyes. "If you die, we are all lost. Do you understand?"

He shakes his head. "They were stragglers."

"What are you saying?"

Jon swallows. "We've seen the Night King's army, and this was less than a fraction of what we've come to know." His fists tighten at his sides. "We lost good men, we lost innocent families and children, and to them it was child's play."

With a soft sigh, he rubs his eyes and retreats to sit upon the windowsill nearby. The slim surge of determination she'd seen moments ago dissipates, replaced instead by a despair she's seen more of every day since the news of the breach at the Wall. Helping herself to the space beside him, she takes his hand in hers. 

"You are their commander," she reminds him gently. "Your resolve alone is what inspires them, it's the only thing that keeps them going and it's your responsibility to hold to that."

"I'm sorry," He says, eyes downcast in a feeble attempt to conceal his shame, his failure. "I'll keep fighting, I will." Indeed she does not doubt him but still she can hear his strain, the weariness lacing his voice. Daenerys draws a breath, leaning into him and resting her forehead upon his shoulder, eyes drawn to their tangled fingers.

Her heart quickens.

"You say you fight for life, don't you?" A barely perceivable nod, and she pulls his hand gently to rest flat upon he curve of her belly, covering it with her own. The realization is just shy of swift, and she does not blame him because she still can scarcely believe it herself. Finally, he straightens and she raises her eyes to him, meeting his stunned gaze with a soft smile. "Fight for life."

His lips part, his breath quickening and for a moment she fears she's upset him, but suddenly his lips are upon hers and her unease dissipates like dust. Their kiss is deep, the edges of her soul grasping at his, her heart swelling. 

They break apart, but just barely. "Dany..." He breathes her name like a prayer, pulling her close once more and capturing her lips with a series of endless kisses, each one more elated than the last. Pulling away, he meets her eyes and draws a shuddering breath born only of humility. "Marry me."

In this moment, no amount of expectation could have prepared her for such an overflow of emotion. She finds herself nodding before she can put a cognitive thought to it, her cheeks stinging in the most wonderful way.

For the first time since the news has been broken, she finds herself joyful.

They summon the war council later that day after a bit of mandatory recuperation, and she cannot help the small grin on her lips at the swell of renewed vigor in the man she calls her soon to be husband, the father of her child. A determination fueled less by fear and desperation and more by righteous conviction. Similarly, she elects not to wear her heavy furs, instead selecting a form-fitting blue dress and ignoring the stunned eyes that follow. Let it be known, she decides. Let it be certain.

Let her not walk in fear anymore.

They lie together that night, taking care with every motion, every touch. Afterward, remain silent for a long while, hours even, with his head at her breast as he draws circles on the soft swell of her belly. No doubt he silently wills their child to greet him with a kick, though it is far to early for such things. At this, she grins softly and places a kiss into his raven curls-

-and the promise of tomorrow begins to glow brighter.


	8. Past Lives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The king realizes the extent of his disdain for crowds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoy! Exploring Jon’s POV for the first time.

With the surge of refugees from the neighboring lands, Winterfell grows to look less like a fortress and more like a city with each passing day. The sweltering heat of so many bodies is invasive even for winter, and the noise is as oppressive as the harshest wind. Jon has never truly recognized the magnitude of his distaste for crowds, not until now.

At Lady Catlyn's request, his lord father had always ensured him absent at the fuller gatherings. Aside from that, Winterfell had rarely crested over the quiet bustle of the locals and in fact, between Robb and himself, they might have been its noisiest inhabitants. At the thought of home, he recalls the shrillness of Mikken's hammer, the yip of direwolf pups. This churning hub of commerce and chaos, this is not home. This is a good thing, he reminds himself, quite a good thing in fact. Every heart beating within these walls is one less for the Night King to seize for his army. 

This is a good thing. 

Snapping himself free of his reverie, his eyes are drawn to the small, cloaked figure preceding him. Even with her pale tresses concealed beneath her hood, one could not mistake her as anything less than the highest nobility. It's certainly not in her blood to blend in with the common folk, no matter how hard they may try. Jon finds himself honing in on the single silver curl which has spilled from her hood, as though it may be all that keeps him from losing his bloody mind.

She glances back, nearly shouting over the noise. "I'd find myself privileged to know just how Lady Sansa has managed to provide for such masses.” Beside her, Jorah offers a soft smile as Tyrion parts his lips to speak, narrowly evading a careless arm swinging toward his head. 

"Indeed, my queen. If not for the chill in the air,” the imp cocks his head, brows lifted, “-or the impending doom that’s upon us, I'd think myself back in the stifling streets of Kings Landing.” 

Jon offers half an ear to the conversation, instead working to draw air through a rapidly tightening windpipe. This is a good thing, it is all a good thing. He tells himself this over and over again, repeats it like a mantra growing more frantic by the moment. Perhaps if he could see beyond, could put a finite end to this perpetual mass, perhaps that could calm his nerves. Bereft of the advantage of height, he straightens and cranes his neck, dancing on his toes for a brief moment to peer over the crowd. 

The walls are as grey and towering as they've ever been but serve as little comfort, because he finds himself half expecting to find a line of spears and shields surrounding him on all sides, all bearing Bolton sigils and pressing him in tighter, tighter.

At this, a seed of dread plants itself deep in the pit of his belly, spreading swiftly like a sickness.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

Suddenly, an ominous flash of silver nearby and he darts instinctively for Longclaw waiting by his side. The wretched and unmistakable squelch of of steel piercing flesh cuts through the ruckus of the crowd, greeting him like a familiar friend as he tugs the blade partially from it's sheath, muscles coiled. The man -a butcher, he realizes- lifts weathered eyes to him, his gaze shifting nervously to the half drawn sword. 

It's a pig, he reminds himself. Only a pig. 

Breathe in, breathe out.

Drawing his lip between his teeth, he releases the blade and shares one last uncertain look with the butcher before turning ahead once more. The party has carried on heedlessly, in fact he strains to catch a glimpse of a familiar face, any familiar face. A hard shoulder sends him stumbling back, his heart leaping. The crowd has surged suddenly, bodies multiplying, pushing him this way and that, smothering him.

He swallows, rapid breaths catching in his throat.

Dany...

A second weight, harder now, careens suddenly into his shoulder and with little room to catch himself, he stumbles back and loses his footing over endless pairs of feet. With a gruesome smack, his skull collides with the frozen earth and a second body tumbles over his own, then a third. The sky disappears swiftly just as it had on that day, knees and elbows and feet pressing him harder down into the earth, pressing the air from his lungs. The world spins frantically, flashing lights darting around his vision as he scrambles for his lost footing. Suddenly there are hands upon him, pulling him up to his feet. No, hands pulling him down, pulling at his bloodied armor, tearing him apart. Down. Down. Beneath the bodies, beneath entrails and scrambling boots. Down.

Down.

“Jon.” 

It’s a statement, likely not the first that has come but the first that catches his attention. His focus dances hazily about, individual faces and details blurring into a mass of grey with a streak of silver at the center. A hand around his, barely felt around the numbness which has seized his fingers. She leads him quickly, swerving this way and that. It's unclear to him just how they manage to escape the crowd but Gods, he's thankful for it. She sits him down upon a sack of flour, crouching before him with soft eyes and her hands at his knees, spinning along with the world behind her. It's over, it's over, it should stop now.

It doesn't.

Breatheinbreatheout.

His breath is a wheeze, and his words distant to his own ears. "What is this?" 

"It will pass," she reassures. "Keep your eyes on me." 

Her fingers work the bindings of his cloak before pushing it gently from his shoulders, allowing it to drop behind him. The frigid air is swift, nipping at his skin which has been dampened by sweat. The moments tick onward and each attempt at breath is met with an even greater resistance to it, as though he were caught in the fist of an invisible giant. His heart pounds in his chest, spurred by panic and helplessness and guilt. Why here, why now? Even in the darkest depths of his nightmares, he'd merely jolt awake with a sharp gasp and a sheen of sweat upon his skin. Nothing like this, never this.

"I'm-" the words catch in his throat. "I'm sorry."

"Don't." Even through the haze, her frown is unmistakable. "I mean it."

Jon winces, turns his head to find Jorah and Tyrion standing outfaced nearby. The elder man keeps a ready hand on the hilt of his sword, watching the crowd churn like a wild current after the snows have melted. "Do not look there," she commands, a small hand at his cheek to guide him back to her. “Look at me.” 

He turns to her, fighting through a swell of panic and uncertainty. With her eyes locked on his own, she draws a deliberate breath, her lips rounding softly. Several times she repeats this, her gaze unwavering as she falls into a soothing rhythm. Jon swallows noisily, latching his focus onto her as though he might otherwise dissipate into dust. His head swims, blots of white swelling across his vision like rogue ink upon parchment, but he tries his best to follow her example. 

Gods, he must be a pitiful sight.

Only vaguely does he register her command to hold out his hand but he obeys, somewhat blindly. A tiny weight patters to the center of his palm, gleaming silver and pure blue and for a moment, images of blood and death give way to a Godswood blanketed in white. She cups her hands beneath his, curling his fingers around the metal. Swallowing, he presses the edge of the stone into his skin, focusing on the pinch that results.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" Her voice comes a bit clearer now, as though he were just beneath the surface of the water. "Do you remember how windy it was that day?"

He does, vividly. In fact, that morning he'd suggested they postpone the ceremony another day. She'd firmly refused, insisting that another day was not promised and she'd grown tired of waiting. The wind had been fierce, drawing the snow up from the ground and nipping at their exposed skin. Sam's teeth had chattered noisily through the words and with an impish smirk, Jon chided him about having spent too much time in the south. 

But none of that had mattered, not really. Only her. 

Wisps of snow had fought hard to deter his vision from her, but there'd been little contest. Her cheeks had been tinged pink with cold and crinkles of laughter pinched around her eyes. A particularly vengeful gust had wrenched a silver strand free from her braid, sweeping it across her face jealously. He'd reached forth, tucked it behind her ear and as his thumb had brushed her cheek, he'd found himself unwilling and unable to resist her any longer. He'd kissed her, and she'd kissed him back. Sam had chastised them with a grin about restraining themselves until the end of the ceremony. At this, Jon kissed her again.

Despite his attempts to smother her in the thickest furs, she'd insisted on a form-fitting gown which matched her eyes perfectly. The swell of her belly had been soft then, shy. This was certainly not the case anymore, in fact he's certain she'll need assistance rising to her feet. It won't be long now. Another two moons at the most, Sam says. Tentatively, he rests his palm flat against her, feeling the soft flutter of a kick even beneath his glove. With so much evil in the world, so much weight on his shoulders, logically such a thing should frighten him, terrify him even.

It doesn't, in fact it does just the opposite. 

Breathe in, breathe out.

"She's been active lately," the queen says softly, laying her hand atop his. "She's been kicking me all day." 

Jon lifts his eyes. It hadn't been long ago that he'd left for the wall with every intention of forgoing a family of his own. It had seemed so easy back then, to leave a life of inadequacy to find purpose, even if that purpose was to freeze to death at the Wall. The notion of family had been like a distant dream, one he accepted as fantastical though something small deep within him yearned for it. 

Often he considers the irony that his own murder is solely to credit for making this beautiful thing possible. Let him die a thousand more deaths if he must, if this is what waits on the other side.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

A gentle tug upon his shoulder. "Come, let's sleep for a bit. We can join with the others at supper."

Nodding wearily, he presses a kiss into her hair, soothed by the subtle scent of vanilla and chamomile.


End file.
